No wonder Ole was a sensation. He didn’t look exactly like football material to us, I’ll admit. He seemed more especially designed for light derrick work. But we trusted Bost implicitly by that time and we gave him a royal reception. We crowded around him as if he had been a T. R. capture straight from Africa. Everybody helped him register third prep, with business-college extras. Then we took him out, harnessed him in football armor, and set to work to teach him the game.
Bost went right to work on Ole in a businesslike manner. He tossed him the football and said, “Catch it.” Ole watched it sail past and then tore after it like a pup retrieving a stick. He got it in a few minutes and brought it back to where Bost was raving.
“See here, you overgrown fox terrier,” he shouted, “catch it on the fly. Here!” He hurled it at him.
“Aye ent seen no fly,” said Ole, allowing the ball to pass on as he conversed.
“You cotton-headed Scandinavian cattleship ballast, catch that ball in your arms when I throw it to you, and don’t let go of it!” shrieked Bost, shooting it at him again.
“Oll right,” said Ole patiently. He cornered the ball after a short struggle and stood hugging it faithfully.
“Toss it back, toss it back!” howled Bost, jumping up and down.
“Yu tal me to hold it,” said Ole reproachfully, hugging it tighter than ever.
“Drop it, you Mammoth Cave of ignorance!” yelled Bost. “If I had your head I’d sell it for cordwood. Drop it!”
Ole dropped the ball placidly. “Das ban fule game,” he smiled dazedly. “Aye ent care for it. Eny faller got a Yewsharp?”